The Boy with the burnt bread
by A.Clips
Summary: Peeta's POV from the time he threw Katniss burnt bread. One-shot, R&R please!


**Notes** – I'm sure this has already been done at least once somewhere in the mass of hunger games fanfictions already out there but I felt like writing my own version so we'll see. I've always wanted to delve into some Hunger Games fanfics and figured I'd try this one shot to begin things. Essentially, this is Peeta's version of the night he threw Katniss a life line...in the shape of burnt bread! Let me know what you think of it m'loves! R&R please.

**Disclaimer** – I own nothing of the hunger games! It's incredible trilogy and all things concerning it are completely down to Susanne Collins who .. let's face it...Demi-God much for creating it! LOVE HER I ORDER THEE, YOU MUST LOVE HER!

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'Don't burn the bread', the words of his mother echoed within his mind, no less condescending within his own head than they had been when she'd spat them at him just moments ago. It was late afternoon, and the rain lashed against the old rattling windows of the room, creating a clattering that just managed to be heard over the great noise of the ovens hard at work. He wished he could step outside if only for a moment to feel the ice of the rain against his blistering skin; it was hot within the back room and the work was hard, his hands were coated in a fine layer of flour right up to the elbows, a thin sheen of perspiration upon his young face, plastering the hair at the back of his neck and his forehead to his flushed skin. He contemplated asking his mother if he could open the door for a little cool air but dared not – she was already in the foulest of moods after one of his brothers had accidentally knocked a bowl over and sent the mixture flying; 'a waste of ingredients' she'd screamed into his face before the back of her hand had reminded the boy to be more careful in the kitchen.

Peeta was by no means as careless as his brothers usually, it was one of the reasons it was he that his mother made work during the long afternoons after school, that and most likely that he had always believed to be the least favoured of the family. He did not mind the work however, had come to learn to take pride within it, and whilst he did not do all the baking and and very little decorating (only that which his mother didn't believe he could mess up), he did a fair bit. Today was no different from any other, his hands working the dough as he'd watched his mother do for years. She'd caught him watching her work once, having been standing within the doorway half out of sight, and with a clout around the ear she'd said if he 'had time to stand and watch he might as well do something useful'. That was the first day he'd worked with her; long, arduous and frustrating at the best of times but he had come to enjoy it. Often it was the one time he and his mother could be within the same room without some form of argument breaking out.

He was not the expert that his mother was but he was adequate enough, and as his hands worked the bread his mind wandered. A cooling breeze suddenly washed over his face and he looked up to see that the back door stood open, allowing waves of cold to grace the baking kitchen. His mother was now bent over an array of cakes, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration as her steady hand decorated them with a well practised ease. He paused momentarily, watching her with a wistfulness – if only he could come to decorate the cakes with such beauty and skilled precision. The rain quietened for a brief moment, and during the time a noise startled him, a clattering from outside the house. Peeta jumped, causing a cloud of flour to erupt as his hand jerked and over tipped an open packet on the worktop. His mother looked over in his direction, and he hastily made to tidy the mess he'd created, sure that she were about to assault him with her sharp tongue or her pick of weapons from the array of baking instruments close at hand.

It was a surprise, therefore, when she spoke not a word to him and instead disappeared out the back door to bark at the cause of the noise. Peeta hesitated, his cupped hands pausing in their effort to scoop up the flour he'd spilt as he caught a few of his mothers words. 'get out of here you scrounging filth before I call the peacekeepers! I'm tired of you Seam lot coming round here in my bins...' Frowning, the young boy wiped his hands upon his apron, inching closer to the door with curiosity. 'scram, get out of here!' Peeta approached the door, peering round his mothers larger frame to see the cause of the trouble.

He recognised her immediately, from the dark curls of her braided hair, currently plastered to her pale face by the rain, to the exact colour of her eyes as they stared, wide and starving. Katniss Everdeen. He had noticed her ever since the day she'd sung, her voice that to rival an Angel. Everybody stopped to hear Katniss sing, even the birds. The black, tired circles beneath the wariness of her gaze and the hollow of her cheeks were frightening. Her clothes – almost rags – hung from her in an ill-fitting manner, indicating the young girl had recently lost a lot of weight. She was pale skin and bone, and young Peeta felt afraid for her. He had never known what it felt like to starve, his family were lucky enough that there was always food upon the table, no matter what state it was in...but everyone in the District knew of starvation, knew of someone who had died of an empty stomach.

Peeta saw the hope fade within her gaze, his mother seemingly satisfied when Katniss turned away from the bakery. 'Out of the way' his mothers disapproving tones made him step aside but he did not return indoors. His eyes remained upon her disheartened figure as she slunk out of sight beneath the pig's house, before his mother's irritated words had him retreating to his work station, hands moulding the bread into shape. His mind had not left the scene, a frown of concern upon his face. He glanced across at his mother but she was bent once again over the half coloured cakes, seemingly already have forgotten the incident. Peeta could not forget. Knowing he would pay dearly for it, a plan formed. He made for the oven, going to replace the unbaked loaf in his hands for the two that was already done. Going to pick both of them up, he hesitated. Glancing once more at his mother and then the door, Peeta allowed his hands to open and the bread slipped, falling haphazardly into the fires.

The effect was immediate, and he quickly grabbed for the loaves before they could burn to ashes, their crusts scorched black, burning in his hands as he half threw them onto the counter. His mother was already there, right behind him as she witnessed the entire thing. 'You clumsy fool!' her scream made him shudder, his heart pounding in a burst of fear as he turned his head to look at her and the back of her hand struck him hard across his cheekbone, hard enough to send him slamming backward into the counter top which he clutched in order to remain upright. His cheek flamed in the pain of the blow but a part of him was glad she hadn't gone for the rolling pin right next to her, or one of the baking tins. 'Feed them to the pigs you incompetent child Go on!' She was furious with him, and when she raised her hand again he flinched and, clutching the bread close, ducked under her hand and ran for the door.

She followed him, her angered gaze upon him as he sloshed through the mud, rain pouring down his back. 'Feed it to the pigs you stupid creature! Why not? No one decent will buy burned bread!' Her words followed him and he wondered if perhaps the whole neighbourhood could hear as his feet took him closer toward the pen. He glanced once toward Katniss' hideout but not a word passed his lips, before looking back over his shoulder. His mother had disappeared, probably to clear up the messes he had made that afternoon, and his footsteps ceased. His eyes remained upon the hungry animals as he tore a few chunks off the burnt crust, throwing it into their pen. They squealed, pushing and shoving each other for the deliciousness of the treat.

He glanced back at the bakery a second time, paranoid that his mother might be watching his antics from the doorway but she still wasn't in sight and so without a second thought he tossed one of the loaves in Katniss' direction. A part of him ached to hand it to her in person, to go over to her and make sure she was okay but he didn't dare. Quickly, he threw her the second loaf, forcing himself not to look in the direction he'd tossed them before he ducked his head and turned his back upon her. The rain ran in rivers down the back of his shirt, his blonde hair soaked brown, the mud splattered up his trouser legs as he headed back for the bakery. He wished he could truly help her, wished he could do something more but that was the best he could offer. He had to hope that it made some sort of difference to her, that it might sustain her for a little while at least. It would hurt so much to see her dead over the very thing his family made their living from – food.

He knew his mother would send him to bed without supper for his 'mistake' but would else could he have done? It was worth it, he would sleep better tonight than he would had he done nothing at all. His thoughts remained outside as he slipped his boots off upon re-entering the kitchen, not wishing to further anger his mother by traipsing mud about the house, and he shut the door with finality behind him. He was ignored as his mother bent over her work once again, and without a word, gaze remaining upon his feet, he rushed through the kitchen, hanging up his apron on its appropriate hook, and then heading for the stairs to his room where he could consider things in private. It had been so small a gesture he only had to hope it would help her, for the idea that Peeta might not get to see her face again was not a pleasant one. Perhaps he felt too much for the girl with the braid and the beautiful voice, but how could he not? He didn't know if she'd recognised him but somewhere deep down, he hoped that one day she might notice him the way he noticed her.


End file.
